beautiful and fun. She was one of the few people outside of Angie he’d ever known who could get him to make an out-and-out belly laugh. And make him angry. Yes, he was furious at her. Furious at the type of people she’d decided to hang out with, the type who’d caused her to overdose at age nineteen. Furious at her for dying.
He shut his eyes, trying to tamp down the emptiness from losing her that would never go away. His mother hadn’t shown up that day. That was when he knew she was never coming back. He hadn’t cried about her since he was a little boy, but alone in his room, on the night of Jessie’s funeral, he had cried for the loss of them both. After that, he’d toughened, and never shed a tear for either one again.
He took the information from the fax machine, folded it in half, and walked out onto the deck to sit.
Angie, in a satin nightgown and pink robe, placed a hot mug of coffee beside him, her eyes heavy with concern, then she went into the house, leaving the French door partially open.
He took a sip of coffee and unfolded the papers.
Their words were too cold, too mechanical, to be about a parent. They had a bureaucratic, impersonal ring—true government files, all dates and facts, about a stranger.
At age twenty-two, Cecily Jean Hampton, both parents deceased, took a job as a clerk-typist with the FBI. Six months later, she married Lawrence Campbell, and a year after that, Jessica Ann was born.
He stopped there for a moment. Jessica Ann Campbell. How odd that he’d never known that. She never let on. She’d been nine years old when Cecily walked out. A nine-year-old understands a lot, and recognizes when it is necessary to hide, and to create a false identity. The realization of all that Jessie must have known and kept hidden from him was staggering.
He continued reading. When Cecily was twenty-four, her marital status changed to widowed. Three years later, at twenty-seven, she transferred to the San Francisco Field Office. Nothing appeared in the file for six years, until the annotation “deceased” was entered. That was it. No explanation, no embellishment.
No nothing.
He turned to Lawrence’s file. Campbell had been an agent, twenty-three years older than Cecily. The file showed his parents’ names—Jessica’s grandparents. Paavo wondered if they had still been alive when Jessica was a child, and if so, why they had never contacted their granddaughter, never sent her a Christmas present or birthday card. He could look up information about them; a lot of personal data was available to him in his position, but some things were better not knowing about. Some could do nothing but open old wounds and cause more heartache.
Lawrence Campbell had died of a brain aneurysm at age forty-seven. Until the time of his death, he’d apparently been a healthy, active man. Survivor benefits had been paid to his daughter, Jessica, until she was age nine, when the folder was annotated “Suspend benefits until new address received. Checks returned. Unable to locate.”
Paavo stared at that a moment.
Cecily had walked away from her children thirty-one years ago, leaving that strange letter with Aulis, and the change in name to Mary Smith.
What had happened that made the FBI think she’d died, and was it true or not? Why was Jessica’s name changed, and her whereabouts hidden, so she no longer even received survivor’s benefits from her father’s account?
Paavo searched for answers in Cecily Campbell’s file. He worked his way through tedious reports on her progress as an employee, but found nothing of note. She was rated as competent and hardworking, a team player, not one to take risks, and she followed protocol. Generally, the reviews were uninspired, unhelpful. Her supervisor in San Francisco was shown as Eldridge Sawyer, and his reports were second-signed by Tucker Bond.
Paavo went back inside. As he tapped into his cell phone’s address book, he caught Angie’s anxious expression
He shut his eyes, trying to tamp down the emptiness from losing her that would never go away. His mother hadn’t shown up that day. That was when he knew she was never coming back. He hadn’t cried about her since he was a little boy, but alone in his room, on the night of Jessie’s funeral, he had cried for the loss of them both. After that, he’d toughened, and never shed a tear for either one again.
He took the information from the fax machine, folded it in half, and walked out onto the deck to sit.
Angie, in a satin nightgown and pink robe, placed a hot mug of coffee beside him, her eyes heavy with concern, then she went into the house, leaving the French door partially open.
He took a sip of coffee and unfolded the papers.
Their words were too cold, too mechanical, to be about a parent. They had a bureaucratic, impersonal ring—true government files, all dates and facts, about a stranger.
At age twenty-two, Cecily Jean Hampton, both parents deceased, took a job as a clerk-typist with the FBI. Six months later, she married Lawrence Campbell, and a year after that, Jessica Ann was born.
He stopped there for a moment. Jessica Ann Campbell. How odd that he’d never known that. She never let on. She’d been nine years old when Cecily walked out. A nine-year-old understands a lot, and recognizes when it is necessary to hide, and to create a false identity. The realization of all that Jessie must have known and kept hidden from him was staggering.
He continued reading. When Cecily was twenty-four, her marital status changed to widowed. Three years later, at twenty-seven, she transferred to the San Francisco Field Office. Nothing appeared in the file for six years, until the annotation “deceased” was entered. That was it. No explanation, no embellishment.
No nothing.
He turned to Lawrence’s file. Campbell had been an agent, twenty-three years older than Cecily. The file showed his parents’ names—Jessica’s grandparents. Paavo wondered if they had still been alive when Jessica was a child, and if so, why they had never contacted their granddaughter, never sent her a Christmas present or birthday card. He could look up information about them; a lot of personal data was available to him in his position, but some things were better not knowing about. Some could do nothing but open old wounds and cause more heartache.
Lawrence Campbell had died of a brain aneurysm at age forty-seven. Until the time of his death, he’d apparently been a healthy, active man. Survivor benefits had been paid to his daughter, Jessica, until she was age nine, when the folder was annotated “Suspend benefits until new address received. Checks returned. Unable to locate.”
Paavo stared at that a moment.
Cecily had walked away from her children thirty-one years ago, leaving that strange letter with Aulis, and the change in name to Mary Smith.
What had happened that made the FBI think she’d died, and was it true or not? Why was Jessica’s name changed, and her whereabouts hidden, so she no longer even received survivor’s benefits from her father’s account?
Paavo searched for answers in Cecily Campbell’s file. He worked his way through tedious reports on her progress as an employee, but found nothing of note. She was rated as competent and hardworking, a team player, not one to take risks, and she followed protocol. Generally, the reviews were uninspired, unhelpful. Her supervisor in San Francisco was shown as Eldridge Sawyer, and his reports were second-signed by Tucker Bond.
Paavo went back inside. As he tapped into his cell phone’s address book, he caught Angie’s anxious expression
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